I was already up, as always. I never understood people who sleep until noon, as if dreams were more important than daylight. I was there, standing in front of the window, watching the city slowly stretch under the sky, a cup of tea between my fingers. The kind of moment when you could believe everything in the universe is fine. A pleasant illusion.
And then, my phone started vibrating.
Jamila.
I sighed, but inwardly. She has the knack for calling me just when I'm thinking, "Hey, it's been a while since she crashed my peace."
— Hey Natsa, hope you're doing well. Do you work on Sundays too?
— No, today I'm free, I answered, still looking at the street as if it would offer me an escape.
— Perfect! Can I come over and spend the day? I'm a bit bored.
I could say no. I could invent something. A meeting, a nuclear alarm, a demonic possession. But no.
— No problem. What time will you be here?
— Hmm… 11 o'clock, let's say.
— Perfect. Got it. So 11 o'clock.
She hangs up. And I stay there. In front of the window. Lukewarm tea. The moment of silence was executed cleanly, without pain.
Alright. 11 a.m. That gives me two hours to pretend to be a human living in a normal apartment.
I tidied up a bit. Or rather: I moved the chaos strategically to give an illusion of order. I put on a calm playlist. Piano, violins. That kind of stuff that makes you believe in mental stability. Then I prepared two glasses of juice, because I learned one thing in life: boredom makes you thirsty.
11:02. Knock knock.
She's punctual. It almost scares me. I open the door.
— Hi, she throws at me with a smile as wide as a lie.
— Hi. Come in, I said. My tone probably hasn't changed in the last decade.
She settles in like it's her home. Normal. It's my place, but it doesn't change anything.
— You know what I want to do? Watch a horror movie.
Of course. Because nothing says "relaxation" like people getting gutted in the dark.
— If you want.
We settle in. Couch. Dim lights. Popcorn. Straight out of a Netflix cliché, except I'm not sure I'm in the right kind of show.
The movie starts. Heavy silence. Sneaky music. An empty house, a creaking door, a kid talking to a wall. Classic. Jamila already starts fidgeting. She jumps, moans, hides behind the cushion. Me? I watch. Stoic. Not because I'm brave. Just because I've seen way worse. The kind of stuff that wouldn't even fit in an R-rated script.
— This is awful, why am I watching this? she tells me, curling up.
— You wanted a real scary movie, I remind her gently. Gently for me means without audible sarcasm.
— But you didn't even blink once!
I shrug. I've seen souls evaporate into cosmic nothingness, Jamila. Your ghost in a nightgown screaming in a Victorian house inspires as much emotion in me as a washing machine.
— You're an emotional wall, she says, laughing nervously, probably to avoid admitting she's about to bite the cushion.
I say nothing. I nibble popcorn.
And in that silence suspended between two movie screams, there was something simple. Peaceful. The kind of weird peace that is born when you share a couch, a bowl of popcorn, and a cinematic anxiety attack with someone who doesn't understand how you work.
And somewhere... it almost made me smile.
The movie finally ends. Two hours of screams, shrill violins, and people always making the wrong decision. Honestly, the human species should instinctively know not to go down to the basement when they hear whispers.
I reach for the remote.
— Hope you liked the movie... Jamila?
I turn around. And there, a striking sight: she clutches a cushion as if her life depended on it, her lips murmuring over and over some kind of mental survival mantra.
— It was just a movie... It was just a movie... It was just a movie...
I stare at her. A mix of amusement and incomprehension crosses me. She was the one who wanted that movie. She insisted even. And now here she is, turned into a trembling wreck. Humans are fascinating. They voluntarily inflict fear on themselves only to pretend to be surprised by their own fright. Socially accepted masochism.
I turn off the TV.
— Hey, madam!
She jumps slightly. Comes back to the living. Throws me a smile clearly recycled from high school years.
— Ah... I managed to finish this movie, she says as if she just climbed Everest.
— Yeah, right.
She looks at me with those eyes of someone who knows she's bluffing badly.
— You can act like a weirdo, but you know I'm right.
I let a sly smile form on my lips. That kind of discreet, almost invisible smile that screams inside: you think you know me, huh? Good luck.
Then, without transition, she turns and rummages through the bag she brought. A serious look slowly settles.
— By the way, Natsa, do you remember an association I told you about a long time ago?
I frown, or at least pretend to.
— An association?
She nods, then pulls out a newspaper and hands it to me. Crumpled paper, fresh ink. She places her finger on a bold headline.
— The NSDR. Apparently, it was mysteriously destroyed. Without any logical explanation.
I look at the paper. I read. Or rather pretend to. Because I know this story very well. Very, very well.
The NSDR... Yeah. I remember. I pulverized it. Reduced it to dust. Scattered it like a puzzle two years ago already. And it took the authorities all that time to find the remains? Efficiency, always admirable.
A mocking smile rises on my lips. It was an intense moment, by the way. Cold, surgical, but strangely satisfying. One of those moments when justice expresses itself in its most silent... and definitive form.
— It's actually good news that it was destroyed, isn't it? I say, taking the paper from her hands.
She nods, her features hardening for a moment.
— Yes. They're responsible for my parents' death. Guess God doesn't sleep. They thought they could do so much harm with impunity?
I don't answer. I read. The paper is from this morning. They discovered the rubble yesterday, Saturday. Yesterday. While I erased everything two years ago. That kind of delay makes me smile softly. As if the world itself is slow to understand the consequences.
— Natsa?
I look up. She stares at me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. A look searching for something but lacking the tools to really dig.
— You seem focused on this information, it seems.
— Meh... I was just reading a bit to see what it was about.
— Haha... You're serious when you read. You look like a dad. So, how's work going?
Ah. The smooth slide to more practical topics.
— Not bad. I got used to it quickly.
— Do you know what your boss does for a living?
And there it is. The real question. The one she's turned over in her head but serves me with fake nonchalance.
If I tell her Claremont is head of a mafia empire whose half the tentacles touch forbidden dimensions, she'll choke and beg me to run away to a Buddhist monastery.
— To be honest, I don't know myself. But for now, the job as a bodyguard is pretty boring.
— Really?
That surprise she didn't hide well. She expected explosions, betrayals, maybe some blood on the suits. I serve her: "boring."
— Yeah. Standing for hours in front of doors without ever doing anything is so boring... You can't even imagine.
I see her exhale. Her gaze becomes lighter, her smile more sincere.
— Ah, I see. Anyway, I prefer that. At least you're not in danger… hehe.
I smile. Yes, Jamila, I hide the truth from you. I hide the flames, the screams, the shards of a world you wouldn't understand. But in truth? I don't think I'm in danger. I am the danger, for them.
But that's another story.
I flip through the newspaper absentmindedly, more out of habit than interest, when a detail catches my eye. A blurry photo, like taken on the fly, and a bold name just below. Krehaan.
Ah.
My smile fades, discreet but real.
I blink. Once. Twice. No, I'm not dreaming. That gaunt face, those sunken eyes as if trying to escape daylight, that nasty aura even a printed image can't hide… It's him. Krehaan. One of the NSDR's most... productive — or should I say, destructive — former members.
I freeze for a moment. Not enough for Jamila to notice, but enough for my brain to send a dull alarm:
This guy should be dead.
I saw him fall. I saw him disappear. I remember very well the day I made him understand that the supernatural has limits... and that I don't.
And now, he's alive. And better yet: he reveals to the public the NSDR's collapse? No. No no no. This guy is not a sentinel of truth, he's a snake. If he spat something out, it's not to awaken consciences. It's because he's preparing another dirty trick. One of those that stink of chaos.
And yet... it amuses me. A little. I thought he'd at least have the decency to stay dead. He sure knows how to ruin a peaceful Sunday, that bastard.
— Natsa?
Jamila pulls me from my thoughts. Her voice is soft but full of suspicion. I look up. She looks at me with that little frown that says "I saw you blink harder than usual, don't try to fool me."
— Huh? I say, my mouth already inventing some nonsense.
— You look weird. Is it because of what's in the paper?
— Hmm? Ah, no, no. Just... a grammar mistake. Incredible to let that slip, really. It says "was destroyed," not "was destroy," it's embarrassing.
I accompany that with a small forced smile. She doesn't look convinced. She squints.
— Are you sure? Because you kind of froze... for a long time.
I laugh. It's false, obviously. I froze barely three seconds. She exaggerates as always.
— I assure you, it's just journalistic incompetence that shakes me. Want a drink?
She looks at me for two more seconds, then slowly nods.
— You're too weird sometimes. But yeah, I'll take one. Sparkling water?
— Totally. Water that fizzes is what we need.
I get up to go to the kitchen. My back itches, but it's not a real itch, it's that old reflex, that inner signal. The one that tells you someone you buried is scratching under the earth.
Krehaan...
That name echoes in my skull like a distant memory. And I have this feeling... that his return is no accident. That there's a plan behind this nice little "scoop."
But Jamila is there, sitting on my couch, legs crossed, eyes still wet from a horror movie that almost traumatized her. She knows nothing. Nothing about the NSDR, nothing about me, nothing about the shadow looming over her carefreeness.
And I intend to keep her in that ignorance a little longer.
Even if Krehaan surely won't give me that luxury for very long.